The Adventure of the Aluminium Crutch
by a1tam0nt
Summary: When an actor is killed on-stage, Tobias Gregson calls in Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson to investigate a most dramatic death! But as always, things are never as they seem when on the stage... My first proper Sherlock Holmes story! I hope you enjoy it.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note:** This work is also published on Archive of our Own. ( /works/9300560/chapters/21080546)

* * *

"Watson," enquired Sherlock Holmes, looking away from his usual perch at the window where he smoked his usual evening pipe while watching the people of London go past "Would you call me a normally very dramatic man?"

I looked up from my evening newspaper; which was running the usual headlines of the Prime Minister making a statement, an increasing inflation rate, and a scandal close to Birmingham. "I beg your pardon, Holmes?"

"I asked, would you call me a normally very dramatic man?" Holmes repeated, looking back at me again for another split second, before turning his head away from me again, and taking a long drag of his pipe.

"Well, naturally, that would depend on whether you currently have a case or not." I replied. "However, I certainly would say you are somewhat dramatic."

"Normally?"

"Well, certainly more in some cases more than others. Such as the naval treaty incident, for example."

"Ah yes. I quite literally served up the answer to Mr. Phelps on a silver platter." Holmes chuckled. "And under the promise of breakfast, no less."

"Well then, why is it that you ask?" I enquired.

"For Gregson is about to present to us an interesting, if now somewhat critical case involving the theatre, I can tell. Hush now, Watson, for I can hear him on the stairs. Come in, Inspector Gregson! The door is open!"

And moments later, the door to our suite burst open, and in ran Tobias Gregson, exactly as Sherlock Holmes himself had predicted.

"M-Mr. Holmes..." Wheezed Gregson, out of breath from having sprinted up the stairs as though his very life itself had depended upon it. "I-I've... I've got an interesting case... for... you..."

"Come now Inspector, please take a seat, and feel free to help yourself to some water." Said Holmes, pointing his hand towards the settee. Gregson shuffled to the settee and flopped down onto it as though he were thrown on. He remained quiet for a few minutes, drinking down several glasses of water, before he finally managed to catch his breath.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Said Gregson.

"Come now, Gregson! You never told me you were involved in amateur dramatics!" Cried Sherlock Holmes, with a smirk on his face. "In-fact, I would dare say that you are only returned from a performance."

"How on earth could you tell, Holmes?" I cried.

"Simple, my dear Watson." Holmes explained. "The dear inspector's face is remarkably lacklustre, even though he has just ran for quite a while to get here. This would obviously create an exceptionally large amount of sweat, and yet there is next to no shine of sweat upon his forehead. Thus, he is wearing makeup that is similar to his skin-tone and thus, obviously designed to prevent sweat from showing. The stage lights use lime to create such a bright shine, and additionally, creates over two and a half thousand degrees in temperature - so, a lot of heat, a lot of sweat. Stage makeup prevents sweat from showing and withstands high temperatures. Thus, it must be stage makeup."

Gregson asked, "And the fact that I'm in amateur dramatics?"

"Quite simple." Holmes added, sitting into his armchair. "I recognise the brand of makeup for not being particularly expensive - so, not a large production with an even larger budget. Furthermore, Gregson is better known for his police work than his acting skills. I believe the fact that you yourself, Watson, named a chapter in your Study in Scarlet, " _Tobias Gregson shows what he can do_ " also corroborates this fact. So, he is not a professional actor, and thus it must be amateur dramatics, lest Gregson lead a double life that nobody else knows about."

"You're correct on all points, Mr. Holmes." Said Gregson. "I'm involved in a local amateur dramatics society as you say, and I've run out to come and see you. There was an incident, you see, in the middle of the performance. That's why I'm still in my stage costume."

Tobias Gregson was, indeed, wearing a stage costume of a grey suit with waistcoat, trousers, dark blue tie and black leather shoes, opposed to his usual brown suit, trench coat and bowler hat that Holmes and I were so used to seeing him in when he was working on an investigation.

"Do explain," Said Holmes sitting back in his armchair, with a languid and dream-like expression on his face. "what exactly happened, and perhaps I will be able to provide an explanation for you."

Gregson took a deep breath, and began to recount his tale to us.

"Well, for the last few months, my local amateur dramatics society has been rehearsing for a performance of A.C Doyle's A Murder in Mauve, and our only performance was tonight.

"It was all going well, that is, until we got to the final part of the play. Where Isaac Hopkins, the real culprit of the story, played by Marvin Foreman, tries to hit the detective, Sydney Hope, over the head with his aluminium crutch."

"Ah yes." Interrupted Holmes for a brief moment. "I've seen the play performed before. I found the backstory of cowboys and Mormons to be a little trifling and somewhat tenuous, however. Pray continue, Inspector."

"Yes, well, anyway," Gregson continued, dabbing his brow with his handkerchief and accidentally removing a small amount of his stage make-up at the same time.

"We rehearsed the scene carefully, time after time, with a rubber duplicate of the crutch, just to make sure that there wouldn't be any injury to anybody during the scene. And we performed the scene exactly as we had rehearsed. Except..."

"Except what?" Enquired Holmes, leaning forward in his chair, looking forward to finding out the critical detail.

"Except, when Marvin went to hit Benjamin, the guy who was playing Sydney, and struck him over the head with the crutch, it really did kill him! Cracked his skull open!" Gregson exclaimed suddenly, even going as far to hit his fist into the palm of his other hand for further dramatic effect.

"So then the false aluminium crutch was swapped for a real aluminium crutch." Holmes concluded. "Was the police informed before you ran here?"

"Yes, one of the theatre ushers ran out to get a constable. I went out the other way to come and get you." Gregson explained. "They'll be looking for me back in a while to help with the investigation. I had to be quick, and there was no time to wait around for a cab. That's why I both look and feel as though I ran from here to Dartmoor."

"I see." Said Sherlock Holmes. "However, do you think that, perhaps, the aluminium crutch was switched by mistake - a real aluminium being confused for a rubber decoy - which resulted in such a tragedy below the stage light?"

"Certainly not!" Gregson barked dismissively, as though he had been deeply insulted. "All the props are kept under lock and key, and only the people involved in the production have any access to any of the props!"

"I see, well, Watson and I are able to spare the evening, and we should be delighted to help out with your investigation. Inspector, would you be so kind enough as to go and call a cab? Come now, Watson, for murder most foul has occurred beneath the spotlight."


	2. Chapter 2

A few minutes later, Holmes, Gregson and I were in a hansom, and not long afterwards, we were at the scene of where the incident had taken place - the Colosseum Saloon in Regent's Park.

The main lobby of the theatre was absolutely packed with audience members, who had been evacuated from the theatre in order to ensure their safety. Many of them seemed particularly annoyed due to the fact that the show had been cancelled, while others were in a slight state of shock, trying to comprehend some form of understanding as to what exactly had just occurred.

"There you are, Tobias!" Cried a voice.

Gregson looked around to see who was tapping him on the shoulder. It was a middle-aged man with brown hair, deep wrinkles, moustache and a hooked nose. He was dressed in a white shirt with frilled sleeves and a dark red waistcoat. He looked almost entirely vampiric in his manner.

"Ah. There you are, James. Sorry for having to leave so early, but I was off to get help for our little incident. This is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. John Watson; I have worked with them frequently in the past, and I have no doubt that they will be able to help us with our little incident. Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, this is James McLaren, he was playing the victim, Edward J. Druce, in the play."

"A pleasure to meet you both, I'm sure." Said McLaren, shaking both of our hands coldly. "Well the constables have been in and are poking around at everything now, so chances are we'll never finish the bloody thing."

"I see, I see..." Said Sherlock Holmes, stroking his chin in thought.

"It really did come as a surprise to me, Mr. Holmes. After all, they all appeared to be doing so well in rehearsal." Said McClaren, with a grim-looking smile. "I couldn't fully comment on that, however. I didn't have much rehearsal to do, only my corpse acting."

"Corpse acting?" I asked.

"Yes, doctor. Corpse acting." Said McClaren, with an even grimmer smile on his face. "It's simply laying down and pretending to be dead. Pretending to be dead or dying."

"Indeed doctor, Mr. McLaren's type of acting involves simply lying in various positions on the stage and pretending to be a dead corpse." Explained Holmes. "Such as the victim in the play, Edward Druce."

"I also played Sir Chilton Derbyville in 'The Devil-Dog of the Derbyvilles'." Added McLaren. "It's an excellent job if you dislike having to learn quite a lot of lines."

"So then you would say that you had plenty of time to watch your surroundings?" Asked Sherlock Holmes.

"Certainly, yes."

"Could you possibly show Dr. Watson and I where the props are stored?"

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. If I can do anything to help bring this... terrible incident to a close, then I would be most grateful."

A constable's voice called out. "Inspector Gregson, sir. The, er, other inspector wants to see you."

"Alright!" Called out Gregson. "Alright then, Mr. Holmes. I'll be in the main theatre if you need me for anything. And if I need you for anything, then I'll let you know."

"Thank you, Gregson. Please, do lead the way Mr. McLaren."

We followed James McLaren to a small side area of the lobby. An area that you may not normally notice unless you were paying a lot of attention. It led to a small corridor, which led to a small back-stage area, lit only by a gas lamp. A large opened chest, filled with an assortment of items sat there, alongside a ladder and a set of spare sandbags. A black curtain was drawn, that separated the front of stage and the backstage area. A constable stood watching on, so that none of the evidence could be tampered with.

"Here is the backstage area, Mr. Holmes," said McLaren, leaning against a wall and taking out a cigarette to smoke "It's where all the magic of the theatre is carefully planned and coordinated." He put the cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a match, discarding the match into a nearby red bucket, which had the word "FIRE" painted on it in white paint, with a sizzle.

"Before we begin, can you tell me more about the victim, Mr. McLaren?" asked Sherlock Holmes, folding his arms.

"Certainly. What do you wish to know?"

"How did the victim get along with the rest of the cast? In particular, was he the sort of man who would experience so-called 'creative differences' or pick fights with other people associated with this production. And others, of course."

"Benjamin? Certainly not. He got along with everyone else like a house on fire." Chuckled McLaren. "He seemed to be such a hardworking man. Dedicated; Very dedicated to both the script and the cast that was doing it alongside him."

"And how about his relationship with those outside of the production? Was his family life alright?"

"He's quiet about the family life. He never knew his mother and father. His friends are the usual orphan's lot. Few, but very close."

"What else would you say about him, Mr. McLaren?"

"Me? Well, like I told you, very dedicated and hardworking."

"Were all of the props for the show kept inside this chest?"

"Certainly. Only the costumes were the only things kept separate. They need to be hung up and kept safe, in-case they get creased, torn, or the moths get to them before we can." He chuckled. "The props box is also kept safe and locked whenever it's not in use. Just in-case some toerag tries to nick something or sabotage the performance."

At that moment, Sherlock Holmes took into his usual eccentric and thorough methods of examination. He inspected the various props that were needed for the play, one by one, carefully setting them aside so he was able to keep track of what had and what hadn't been properly examined. Various items, from a police constable's whistle and handcuffs to a seemingly well-read copy of The Strand magazine. But at no point was any form of aluminium crutch removed from the box.

"Crutch not in there, then?" McLaren asked, stubbing out the last of his cigarette before he discarded its remains.

"Certainly not." Said Holmes, leaning in further to examine the chest even closer than he had been before. "And there is no trick to this box that you know of, is there?"

"Definitely not."

"Well then, it seems that the rubber crutch has gone missing or has been hidden by somebody." I concluded.

"And the aluminium crutch was left on the stage. Marvin dropped it as soon as it had become clear that Benjamin collapsing wasn't a part of the actual play." Explained McLaren "The constables tested it earlier by hitting one over one of their spare helmets. It dented it well, that's for sure!"

"Indeed Watson, the rubber crutch has been disposed of by our clever culprit." Said Holmes, who was now examining the lid of the chest, which had a very intricate and complicated locking mechanism on the front to hold it shut. "Tell me, Mr. McLaren, the answer to two questions. The first being; where is Mr. Foreman? And the second; who holds the key to this chest?"

"Well, the key is in the hands of our director, Mr. Marcus Moffat. It's the only key, and the lock is impossible to try to jimmy open with a pick or a knife or anything like that. Also, I think Marvin is 'round the front, being interviewed by constables. I heard his voice 'round there while I was smoking my cigarette, as well as the fella that Gregson often hangs around with when he's at work. Lestrange, isn't it?"

"I think you're referring to Lestrade, Mr. McLaren." I corrected him.

"Well, if anything, finding out what he has to say for himself is certainly very important."

"There's a door on the other end, Mr. Holmes. It'll take you round to the audience's seating area and the pit without you having to go anywhere near the stage. Yes, that's the one. If you need me for anything, I'll be here. Nothing else better to do anyway... Good luck, Mr. Holmes! Godspeed!"


	3. Chapter 3

I followed Mr. Sherlock Holmes to the side-stage door, which led into a small corridor used mainly for the storage of other props for other plays that had long-since been performed, or were due to be performed in the coming years or months. The door on the opposite end of the corridor led to the main audience seating area, in-front of the stage. Row after row of empty red chairs that had once been filled with many happy audience members and many happy memories, all of which disappeared, due to the fact that they were not expecting such a literal tragedy to occur beneath the spotlight.

"Let me go!" Cried an angry voice as we stepped into the theatre once again. "I'm innocent, I tell you! Innocent!" Followed by the sound of what appeared to be the scuffling of somebody trying to get somebody else under control.

Holmes and I both looked in the direction of the sound. A young man with flaxen hair was caught in the grasp of two constables, who seemed to be trying to bring him under control. The man looked almost ready to burst with the full energy and excitement of his fear, to the point that if he were released by the two constables, the chances are that he would make, at worst, a good attempt at trying to attack Inspector Lestrade.

"Mr. Foreman, please! Calm down!" Lestrade tried to reason carefully, ensuring that he kept his distance, so that in the unlikely event of the man breaking free of the constable's grip, he could be one of the first to leave. We quickly approached them.

"What seems to be the problem, Inspector?" Asked Holmes.

"Sherlock Holmes! And Doctor Watson! Thank heaven you're here!" Cried Lestrade happily, as though he had just been informed that he had won the lottery. "We were just beginning to wrap up this somewhat simple case, when this man looked as though he was going to attempt to strangle me or something!"

"I didn't!" Protested Mr. Foreman "For the tenth time! I did NOT kill him! Oh god, why won't anybody listen to me?!"

"Mr. Foreman, please remain calm." Said Holmes reassuringly. "I am still currently investigating the case, and I may just be able to prove your innocence. Inspector, have you truly investigated this case to the full end of the law?"

"Certainly."

"And what conclusion have you drawn?"

"That Mr. Foreman here killed the victim, Mr. Cumberman." said Lestrade, reaching into his pocket and taking out his official notebook, and beginning to look through the many notes related to many previous cases. "I'm afraid Mr. Holmes, that there is no room for debate. Even for you of all people. I can see that it is a simple open and shut case of murder or possibly accidental manslaughter."

"I didn't kill him! I didn't mean to kill him! I was only doing what the bloody script said!" Whined Foreman.

"So you admit then that it may have been accidental manslaughter?" Lestrade interrogated.

"No, that's not what I mean at all! Mr. Holmes, surely YOU believe that it's not my fault?"

"Inspector, I personally feel as though it may be far too early to draw any proven conclusions as of yet." Said Sherlock Holmes. "What is it, exactly, that you base your conclusion on?"

"Well, Mr. Holmes, your insight may need glasses!" Said Lestrade with a bitter bite of sarcasm. "Perhaps the fact that an entire audience of spectators is able to testify to the fact that Marvin Foreman hit Benjamin Cumberman over the head, with the aluminium crutch in question. Cumberman then died from his fatal head-wound. If that is not simple, Mr. Holmes, then I am afraid that I do not know what is!"

Lestrade even concluded his rant by flashing the official notebook in the face of Holmes and I, even jabbing at the quick and short-handed notes with his finger. "Now, I apologise, Mr. Holmes for this terrible rant or rave, however, the facts of the case are incredibly clear. Clear as day! There is no room for any further debate on the topic, or any form of misinterpretation of the fact that whatever way you look at it, Mr. Foreman struck Mr. Cumberman over the head and killed him!"

"Do you have any proof, however," responded Sherlock Holmes, as calm and collected as ever "that Mr. Foreman may have openly tried to exchange the rubber facsimile crutch in the props chest for a real and genuine aluminium crutch?"

"I think that I should be able to help you answer that question, Mr. Holmes." Added another voice. We looked on as the two men approached us.


	4. Chapter 4

The voice, as dry and sarcastic as it was, belonged to a tall and thin man with a hooked nose and a high forehead. His balding head showing proof of age and experience in thoroughly organizing many different plays and performances beforehand. He carried a pipe and a large, typewritten booklet, which appeared to be the script for the fictional murder mystery adventure which had been stopped mid-way due to a literal murder mystery.

He was accompanied by a slightly shorter and rat-faced sort of man with short grey hair, who wore a brown bowler hat and grey trenchcoat, which appeared to be a major part of his own stage costume. He also appeared to be carrying a somewhat official-looking notebook.

"Ah! Mr. Moffat! Thank God you're here too! Maybe you can put in a good word for me!" Cried Marvin Foreman, almost desperate at this stage for something that would prove his innocence.

Marcus Moffat gave a deep glare at each and every one of us, as though he could see, or even, control, the wills and impulses of our very souls.

"...Sadly, I'm afraid that I cannot." Said Mr. Moffat, after what felt like an hour of silence.

"Mr. Moffat!" Whined Mr. Foreman, who seemed to be becoming absolutely desperate for any form of help or support.

"For you see, the only key to the props chest, the key that I keep, was stolen the other day. Fortunately, Mr. Graves here, managed to find it for me yesterday, so the dress rehearsal was able to continue as we had previously planned. But then, after Mr. Foreman was arrested..." Mr. Moffat reached into his pocket, and removed a brass key, with a strangely intricate design on the handle.

Inspector Lestrade reached into his own pocket, and took out an almost exact replica of the key that Mr. Moffat was holding. However, it lacked the intricate design that its predecessor previously had, and instead featured the name of a local locksmith's. "Mr. Graves here -"

"It's Inspector Abberline, actually." Corrected Graves. "Inspector Jonathan Abberline."

"Ah yes. Inspector Abberline, here, discovered an exact replica of the key in Mr. Foreman's dressing room. Cut by the local locksmith."

"Indeed! What do you think of that, Mr. Holmes?"

"Well, certainly, anybody could have stolen it and sent it to the locksmiths to ask for another key to be cut." Said Sherlock Holmes. "Was there, by chance, any signed receipt to go along with this duplicate key?"

"No." Responded Lestrade. "But-"

"But nothing. Mr. Moffat, can all cast members be accounted for during the performance of the play?"

"Most certainly, Mr. Holmes." Replied Moffat. "It was at the denouement, and the only people who were off the stage beforehand were..." He flicked through his typewritten script, muttering it to himself as he looked for the list of characters required for the scene. He then compared this page with the one from the beginning of the script, the cast-list. "Why, that would be Mr. McLaren, who played Edward J. Drebber, the victim of Mr. Isaac Hopkins's grand plan for revenge."

"That's right! Mr. Drebber was off-stage for the majority of the performance!" Exclaimed Mr. Graves.

"Do you not mean Mr. McLaren?" Asked Lestrade.

"No! Mr. Drebber! Who is this McLaren man? Is he involved in his murder, some way?"

"Forgive Mr. Graves, Inspector." Said Moffat. "He uses a strange method he learned overseas called 'method acting', which requires him to be absolutely in-character of whatever part he's playing for the majority of his time outside the performance. So please forgive him, but at the moment he is currently in the role of Inspector Jonathan Abberline, the pick of Scotland Yard's otherwise rotten bunch."

"Er, right. I see..." Said Lestrade, not quite sure what to make of it.

"By all means, Mr. McLaren told Watson and I that he was off-stage for the most part of the play, seeing as his corpse acting is only required for the initial scenes of the play, where Sydney Hope and James Walters investigate the scene of the death of Mr. Drebber. And he also claimed that nobody came past."

"I can also attest to that." Said Tobias Gregson, who had only stepped in through the door "He helped me to go over my lines."

"Thus, we can eliminate him as a suspect. Mr. Foreman, were you also on the stage?"

"I was playing a background part as well, so yeah, I was on the stage too beforehand. The costumes were similar, so I was only backstage a few seconds to adjust a few clothing items before I was back on it again."

"Very well then. Gentlemen, I propose that we search the victim's belongings. Which I think may give this mystery its final bow."


	5. Chapter 5

And so, Sherlock Holmes beckoned us to follow him to the backstage area, and to what could prove to be the fact of Marvin Foreman's entire innocence in the matter.

The backstage area continued behind the door that we last saw James McLaren smoking a cigarette beside the props area. It was a short corridor, with a number of doors on either side, with a small fire escape on the opposite end. Every door had a small name plaque nailed to it, featuring the actors' names, and showed exactly who was using what room at any one time.

There were, of course, the names of all involved in the production, bar one door, which was being used, at the time of writing, for another storage room.

"Inspector Lestrade," said Holmes, before allowing the investigative party to continue forward with its search "May I ask that you send the victims belongings back here from the mortuary? I feel as though it will be able to shed a light onto the true identity of Mr. Cumberman's killer."

Lestrade considered it for a moment, but then decided that it was perhaps for the best. "Alright then, Mr. Holmes." Said Lestrade, before scrawling a quick note onto a page of his official notebook, tearing out the page and handing it to a constable, who could have it telegrammed over.

"It should reach the Yard in time, Inspector, for the dramatic conclusion to this devilish murder mystery plot."

"Well being frightfully honest, Mr. Holmes, I'm not sure what, exactly, you intend to find inside the victim's dressing room. But if it is not in any way conclusive, I'll have no option but to arrest Mr. Foreman here."

"Inspector, if what I believe that we may find in the victim's dressing room and his personal belongings actually exist, then we may, in-fact, be able to hopefully reveal the entire fact behind this matter. Mainly, who killed Mr. Cumberman, and who killed him?"

"If you say so, Mr. Holmes." Said Mr. Moffat with a folded-arm jibe and sneer. "However, I must say that this, surely, must be a massive waste of not only my time, but the police's time, and everybody else's time."

"Do not worry, Mr. Moffat." Chuckled Holmes. "For the show shall always be able to go on. It may not be today or tomorrow, but the show will still be able to go on."

We opened the door to Mr. Cumberman's dressing room and stepped inside.

The room was small and rather compact. However, it was decorated in a somewhat lively way, which showed that the owner must have been rather dedicated to his work and his show. There was a small dressing table in the corner, which had a large mirror on the wall behind it, lit by the warm glow of several electric lamps surrounding it. The table top itself contained several palettes and tubes of stage make-up, a typewritten copy of the script - which appeared to have been previously well-used, and a copy of the novel on which the play was based - also, well-used

A number of photographs adorned the wall beside the dresser, as well as a large trunk and a long rack of various stage costumes. Finally, there was also a small waste-paper basket beside the door.

"Here we are, Mr. Holmes." Said Gregson. "Mr. Cumberman's dressing room."

"Thank you, Inspectors." Said Holmes, crouching down to examine the wastepaper basket, which appeared to be filled with many different slips of paper. Holmes took out his magnifying glass and used it carefully to examine each slip. He gave a satisfied chuckle to himself, before pocketing them after a few further minutes of examination.

He stood up again, and walked over to the table covered in containers of stage make-up. He picked up the novel and carefully examined it.

"Hmm..." He hummed.

"It is certainly well-read." Said Sherlock Holmes as he flicked through the different pages. "And he has also marked the important pages of the novel. Yet he didn't think to finish it off."

He opened the book for us all to see, and, by accident, a small slip of paper fell out from between the pages.

"Halloa! What do we have here?" Holmes exclaimed, picking up the small slip of paper from the floor. He opened it and carefully read through it for a moment, before chuckling in a satisfied way to himself and pocketing it.

"I think, Inspector, that we may have examined the victim's belongings for long enough." Holmes concluded. "And I think that I can say with certainty that I can point you in the direction of Mr. Cumberman's killer, Inspector.

"Shall we head back to the auditorium? For I feel that such a mystery with such a dramatic beginning deserves an equally dramatic conclusion, wouldn't you agree?"


	6. Chapter 6

Back in the main auditorium, the place had remained equally as quiet as it did before any such performance took place. For Scotland Yard had practically finished its investigation, and they were preparing to pack up and head for home.

And with a smirk, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly what lurked at the end of the case.

"Inspector Lestrade! Inspector! Inspector Lestrade!" Cried a voice.

Lestrade looked around, only to be greeted by a young constable. "I brought Mr. Cumberman's belongings, exactly as you asked for, sir."

"Good work." Said Lestrade, taking the small brown paper bag of evidence off him, and handing him an extra shilling for his troubles.

"Well?" Asked Holmes, as Lestrade opened the paper bag and examined its contents without removing them.

"Let's see... there's a pen, some spare change, and a folded slip of paper, which I think has some writing on it." Lestrade murmured.

"Very well then, Inspector. This may be the best opportune moment to present to you the identity of the killer that you so seek. The true killer of Mr. Benjamin Cumberman is none other than Benjamin Cumberman himself!"

"You mean it was suicide?!" Exclaimed Lestrade.

Tobias Gregson, James McLaren, Marcus Moffat, Richard Graves, Marvin Foreman and I all gasped in shock at the idea of such a thing being the correct conclusion.

"Suicide?!" We all cried in both shock and unison

"But... why would he want to do that?" Asked McLaren.

"It is rather simple. I dare say, even elementary." Said Holmes with a shrug. "Everyone else involved in the case has an alibi throughout the performance, and there was no instance where there would be less than two performers backstage. Particularly due to Mr. McLaren's role of playing a corpse allowing him plenty of time backstage. This means that the majority of the cast had alibis. The victim, Mr. Cumberman, however, did not."

"Of course!" McLaren exclaimed with a snap of his fingers. "He only came back stage for a short while, while I was recreating the incidents as told by the detective on-stage!"

"And what was his costume for the play?" Asked Holmes.

Mr. Graves took out his own "official notebook", and quickly flicked through a small number of pages, before he came across his own scrawled notes. "A grey suit, and brown Ulster!" He proclaimed, before he continued to read further into the notes he had made as a spurious police inspector. "Furthermore, throughout the performance he retained a stiff posture. His posture did, however, loosen up a few minutes before he died."

"He told me that he slipped off of his front doorstep this morning," added Mr. Moffat, taking a puff on his pipe "so that's why I thought he was a bit stiff walking around the stage."

"And was the moment that his gait changed the exact moment that Mr. Cumberman stepped off of the stage?"

"I think it did, actually." Marvin Foreman said "He moved around a lot more afterwards, actually. So much so that I thought if he moved any further, I'd have to get a cab to chase after him for the crutch scene!" He added, with a light-hearted chuckle towards the end.

"Thus, he could have easily smuggled in an aluminium crutch, inspector. I think that this new fact should call for a search of the victim's belongings, for he may have hidden the false crutch, the rubber one, there, if he has not yet had time to dispose of the real one."

Lestrade nodded in agreement, and sent the two constables back down to Benjamin Cumberman's dressing room to search for it again. They returned a few minutes afterwards, with a long grey crutch in-hand. One of their removed their now slightly-dented helmet and placed it on the floor. The other one raised the crutch high above his head the same way that Isaac Hopkins did in the play, and brought it down heavily onto the helmet, which fell over with the sound of a hollow rattle.

The constable retrieved his helmet, which still only had a single large dent on the top of it.

"It appears to be the genuine rubber crutch." I concluded.

"Indeed, Watson." Replied Sherlock Holmes.

"Why, though, would he want to kill himself?" Asked Foreman.

"Indeed, he appeared to be an otherwise very happy man, and very much satisfied with life." Said Moffat. "He will surely be missed, but... suicide?"

"It does seem... illogical..." Said Richard Graves, stroking his moustache and chin in thought.

"Mr. Cumberman was not a man without any form of vice." Said Sherlock Holmes, producing the slips from his pocket and handing a number of them over to Lestrade. "Mr. Cumberman had the unfortunately rather expensive vice of gambling. These are betting slips that stuck out at me in his wastepaper basket. And many of them, sadly, are incredibly large losses. A number of them are also loan receipts, as it seems that he had the tendency to gamble large and multiple amounts of money at any one time."

Inspector Lestrade went through them, one by one.

"I, Carl Benjamin Timothy Cumberman, promise to pay back the sum of ten pounds which has been lended to me by Mr. Scott Andrews before the 18th of January 1886, along with ten percent of interest..."

"But surely, he could have easily just asked for help, opposed to continuing such a terribly despicable habit?"

"Sadly not, Mr. McLaren." Said Holmes "The man, as you say, is an orphan, and had no kith or kin that he could turn to. And any addiction has the tendency to play on any man's mind before he indulges in it again. Almost taking away his entire life force until the small burst of energy created from it is found once again. And he would dare not wound his pride with any form of local scandal or making himself appear weak.

"And anyway, the man, the victim, Mr. Cumberman, was an actor. He was used to playing a different man whenever the occasion demanded it. I imagine, however, that we may be able to hear from his real self if you read from that slip of paper, Lestrade, yes, Mr. Cumberman's suicide note. Would you care to read it aloud, so that we all might hear what he has to say for himself?"

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Dear fellow cast members, [it read] If you are reading this, then I am no-longer of this world, and have taken the decision to end my life. It is too late for me now, as my debts are catching up to me and I'm afraid that I can see no way on this earth that I will be able to outrun them. Thus, I may be able to escape them in whatever heaven or hell awaits me. I do not have much to say for myself, as I do not feel worthy to be before such people who are much greater people than I ever have been or perhaps ever will be. To enact my plan of suicide, I smuggled in a real aluminium crutch, one which looks almost entirely like the facsimile one, from a nearby pawnshop. A few days ago, before I fully enacted my plan, I stole the key to the props chest from Mr. Moffat. Sir, I must apologise for my sin, and I hope that you will forgive me. I did, however, have good reason to steal the key. I went to a nearby locksmith and had a duplicate key cut. One that does not look exactly like the key, but a functioning key nevertheless. Proof of this lies in my book, where I keep the receipt from the locksmith's as a bookmark. Hidden until now, where the truth must be outed. I used it to replace the rubber crutch for a genuine one, and I have hidden the false crutch in the costume rack that is kept inside my dressing room. If you wish to have it back for whatever purpose, I am sure that you are likely to find it there. The crutch that was used throughout the entire performance is the genuine crutch, and is likely now my supposed murder-weapon. As you may have found out, I am very much deep in debt. A fault of my own, and a burden that I cannot share with any form of kith or kin, and a burden that I do not wish to share upon my friends. Marvin - if you're reading this, I fully apologise. My wish was to die doing something that I loved, acting, with the people that I loved, you fine fellows and ladies, and at the place I love, the stage. A place where all is not as it seems, and people can hide successfully behind masks, costume and makeup. By all means, please do not stop to mourn me. Do not stop the performance because I have become tragically unavailable. My final wish, for you all, is to continue with your performances and to be happy. After all, "the show must go on", as they say. Thus, I hereby officially confess to my sins and my (hopefully) successful plans of suicide. And I apologise for any trouble that I have put any of you through. May we meet again someday, (signed)  
Benjamin Cumberman

The cast remained in shock and awe, now knowing fully what had truly transpired when upon the stage. A tragic death, tragically taken on a tragic stage beneath a tragic spotlight. A true tragedy.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss." Said Sherlock Holmes, shaking hands with the cast members.

"And I am terribly sorry for accusing you of murder." Said Inspector Lestrade, sincerely, as he shook the hand of Mr. Foreman "If I had known earlier, what had happened, then I would not have acted in such a manner."

"It's alright. It's alright." Said Mr. Foreman. "You were simply doing your job."

"Which, I think, Mr. Foreman, is something that you and your fellow performers need to do right now."

"I beg your pardon, Holmes?!" I exclaimed.

"Mr. Foreman, Mr. Moffat, it is your job to ensure that Mr. Cumberman's final wishes are acted out."

"His final wish?"

"Indeed. As the saying in your particular industry goes, "the show must go on", must it not?"

"Indeed," added Marcus Moffat, emptying his pipe and stamping out the contents. "even when a death occurs, time will still tick on. We cannot just simply stop because a tragedy, Greek or otherwise, has befallen us."

"Besides. He even said so in the letter." Added James McLaren "It's what he would have wanted, after all."

"Indeed." Said Sherlock Holmes. "I'm afraid that I am unable to do any further in this case. And that it is time for me to go. After all, you surely must have rehearsals or something to do?"

"We do indeed." Said Mr. Graves, in his normal voice, who seemed to have finally dropped out of character. "And I think, Mr. Holmes that you would particularly enjoy any form of crime fiction. Thank you once again for your help in bringing this tragic matter to an end."

"You're very welcome, Mr. Graves." Said Holmes, as he went to leave.

"But as for crime fiction, I find that its quality often lacks, and often sets a highly unrealistic genre of non-fictional crime, which I feel is the sort I prefer."


End file.
